Trickling Through the Defences
by Jetainia
Summary: There is a door in Jon's mind that is breaking down. There is a kettle that isn't being used by the right person. (Magnus Archives)


Jon stared at the door in his mind, watching the small rivulets of water trickle in through the gaps. He didn't know if it would still drown him if it opened. He was wearing himself ragged trying to find Martin and not Ask the questions that would force statements out of innocent people he Saw. He read the old and dusty statements that belonged to those who would no longer be bothered by bad dreams, gaining only small amounts of nourishment from them but enough to continue.

Elias was in prison—no longer hovering over them in his placidly menacing way but no doubt still working on his plans through Peter Lukas. There was no such thing as safe behind bars when it came to Elias Bouchard. Jon couldn't See the plans or the pieces falling into place, they were blocked from him—by Elias or Beholding itself, he didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't work against Elias and Peter properly because he had no idea what their endgame was. Martin probably had more of an idea of what was going on than Jon did. Hell, Martin probably knew more than all of them put together.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he had a sudden flash of knowledge of their current activities. Daisy and Basira were staring out of windows opposite of each other and sipping tea—keeping watch. There was a feeling that Martin was walking in mist but nothing more.

Jon sighed and opened his eyes—quickly having to shut several of them when he realised he had opened more than the two he had been born with. There was no point staring at a door he had minimal control over, barring access to knowledge he almost wanted to drown in. He grimaced as the ache in his bones made itself known, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office in the Archives and his body was adamantly informing him of why that was a bad idea.

He grimaced again as he remembered the scenes he had seen. He hadn't seen Melanie, cut off from Beholding as she was, but he hoped she was safe. Perhaps she was curled up next to Georgie with The Admiral demanding pats as she listened to Georgie read aloud. He sent a mental apology to Daisy and Basira, not knowing if it actually carried through via some power of the Eye but hoping it didn't because otherwise they would both come crashing through his door with anger and concern on their faces.

It was getting harder to control where his eyes went and what he Saw there as he grew weaker and weaker with every dusty statement and refusal to _See_. Even in the dreams he still walked the few occasions he managed to sleep, he tried to close as many eyes as he could. He did not want to increase the suffering of those who had put their fears behind enough to talk about them only to relive them from then on in their sleep. He couldn't stop their nightmares completely, but he could try to lessen the fear brought by him, at least.

(He knew the more eyes he closed, the less energy he gained from the nightmares, but he had promised Basira, Daisy, Melanie and himself—and Martin even if Martin was obscured and hadn't been seen by any of them for days. He was strong enough to keep working, to help stop the rituals of Elias Bouchard or Peter Lukas. That would be enough. It would have to be.)

He did not want to be a pawn in the game of Fears. He did not want to serve the Beholding, nor the Web, the Spiral, the Stranger, or any of the others swirling around the Institute and the world at large. He was human, no matter how much of him decided otherwise. He was Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, and sometimes (most of the time), he was simply the Archivist, filing away stories of nightmares come real told by those who managed to survive.

Jon looked again at the door, wondering if it was his imagination that made it appear as if the gap between door and floor was larger and more knowledge was trickling in silently. He sighed and levered himself of the floor, grabbing the cane nearby as the twinging in his leg let him know walking would be difficult without aid. He needed a cup of tea (Jon ruthlessly shoved away the unwarranted and unwanted thought that he needed a cup of _Martin's_ tea). Here he was, trying desperately to stop powerful entities with a few friends, an utterly exhausted body that struggled to hold itself upright sometimes, and cups of tea serving as a poor substitute for the nightmares and experiences the Archivist wanted. The world seemed well and truly fucked if he was the last line of defence.


End file.
